What Really Happened
by Bardess of Avon
Summary: I began to wonder: What would /really/ happen if the daughter of a gypsy traitoress and one of Frollo's soldier ended up in the Court of Miracles? Certainly not the Mary Sue garbage we see so often. Dark humor, although you may have to look for it.


A/N: This was prompted by the recent spate of Sues attacking this fandom. True, not _all_ of the girls are Sues, but an alarming amount of them are. I got sick and tired of it and decided to put this little oneshot up. It's dark humor, I suppose; a parody, but very dark and without the usual style associated with parodies.

Basically I was wondering to myself: What would happen if the daughter of a gypsy traitoress and one of Frollo's soldiers really _did_ find her way into the Court of Miracles? Don't worry, those of you know me; I haven't gone back to being a Suethor! I chose a rather common French name and two Romani names (for the mother) that I found on a website that offered very little information. Sadly, this was the most informative site I could find. I certainly hope they're accurate enough.

Reviews would be extremely appreciated, especially considering my birthday is tomorrow. Aw, come on; make a girl's day, will you? Thanks!

Disclaimer: Nothing you see is mine, not even the concept; too many of these darned half-gypsies have come into the Court of Miracles that this is practically standard.

* * *

Augustine threw back the lid of the tomb, panting as she crawled over the ledge and onto the stairs. She nearly sobbed as she shut the lid behind her and hovered on the stairs. She heard the soldiers above her, moving around both on foot and on horse as they searched for her. She shivered in the damp air but dared not make a sound; if they discovered her...may God have mercy on her soul. It seemed like hours, and it very well could have been, but after awhile, all noise of the soldiers waned. Augustine realized then that she had been holding her breath and that the stench of the catacombs curled her stomach and made her nearly retch. She gagged a few times, but rectified the situation by covering her mouth and nose with the scarf formerly worn in her hair.

Augustine descended carefully, unable to see very well. She hiked up her skirts to her shins and waded through the waste around her ankles. The torches on the walls provided a dim sort of light, and her eyes gradually adjusted to it. She didn't dare remove the scarf, though; she could practically feel the stench beating against the thin material. Augustine treaded onward, feeling more and more trepidation; shouldn't she have run into someone by now?

"Perhaps this is a mistake," she murmured to herself. She paused for a moment, but only that; she decided that she had to at least try and trudged onwards. She had not gone more than a few steps, however, when all the lights were doused and she felt herself being grabbed up as a several men laughed deeply. Through all the commotion, she registered that her hands were forced behind her back and pinned there by strong, meaty hands; it would be fruitless to try and escape. The same man also bent her down onto her knees; her skirt was now soaked with other people's waste. Her scarf had been lost in the fray, and she wished for it now more than ever; she was even closer now to the mucky water and wished dearly that she could not smell it.

"Who goes there?" one voice asked.

Augustine's eyes were very slowly adjusting to the dark; she could make out a few skeleton costumes near her, but not much else. So she could not see who was addressing her now. "I mean no harm!" she protested in a strangled voice; it was difficult to talk in her position.

A small light flared up, and Augustine saw an admittedly attractive Romani man standing above her, holding a small torch. He bent down closer to examine her, his eyebrows raised. "A Gadje?"

"Half," Augustine answered quickly, struggling to sit up a bit straighter. Her resistance was in vain. "My mother was Romani, though, I swear to you."

The man did not seem satisfied. "Who was your mother?"

Augustine paused.

The man looked as if his suspicions had been nearly confirmed. "_Who_, girl?"

"Mirela Beshaley," Augustine admitted.

The other men murmured.

"I know she left her people for a soldier, but I do not have the same wavering loyalties that she had," Augustine said, louder. "Please, I beg of you, grant me sanctuary from Frollo's men!"

The man shook his head slowly. "If you wanted sanctuary, you should have gone to Notre Dame, girl. Your mother was a traitor and you know it. Yet you came to us to hide you from your own father's men."

"Please, I _beg_ you!" Augustine sobbed. "_Please_!"

The man shook his head again and motioned to her captors. They raised her up and marched her into an open area she knew to be the fabled Court of Miracles her mother had told her about. She had almost no time to dwell on this, however, because she was marched straight to a platform with two nooses hanging from it. Augustine flailed against her captors and screamed a little bit; she had come seeking refuge and she was given death instead. The other gypsies gathered around at once, curious and admittedly eager.

"Come 'round, ladies and gentlemen, for we have a traitor's daughter in our midst!" Clopin proclaimed, motioning for one and all to join him.

"Stop!" Augustine wailed.

"Mirela Beshaley's daughter has come seeking _sanctuary_ from Frollo's soldiers!" Clopin bellowed as two men tied up Augustine and gagged her with her abandoned scarf. "Should we give it to her?"

There were roars in the negative. Augustine screamed and gagged.

"No?" Clopin asked, cupping his ear. "Well, if you're sure…"

Cheers. Augustine sobbed.

Clopin turned to her, whipped off his hat and swept into a bow. "My dear, I am terribly sorry. But you _did_ bring it upon yourself." He rose and put his hat back on. His eyes lingered on her skirt and he frowned. "Better fix that, Jacques."

Jacques tied a thin rope around her skirt. They would at least give Augustine the courtesy of not having her skirt fly up. Augustine could now not kick her legs as much, either. She gave up and stood limp, awaiting her death. A lot of good her mother's advice had done her now. Her mother really _was_ a traitor, even when she wasn't trying to be.

Clopin yanked back the skull-headed lever, causing the trap doors to swing open.

Augustine could not even shriek; the shock was too great. She was aware of the choking, burning sensation at her throat as she gagged and gasped for air. Her legs jerked; she knew that much. Then, quite suddenly, she was still.

The crowd cheered and jeered as they usually did before dispersing. Jacques approached a hard-faced Clopin when most of the gypsies had gone. "What should we do with her?"

Clopin glanced at her limp head, lolling on her shoulders. He shrugged carelessly. "Throw her with the others."

Jacques nodded and waved over a few men to help take her down and carry her body out of the Court of Miracles.


End file.
